The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters

by Nadiya Hussain

‘That’s what I needed to ask you. I need you to go home and get some things for me. And you can’t tell anyone what I’m about to do. I’ll tell them myself.’

  Great. More lies for other people. As if I hadn’t got in enough trouble the first time around.

  ‘Please, Mae. I need you to do this for me.’

  She looked at me with those puppy-dog eyes she gets sometimes, which makes it impossible to be angry at her.

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I heard some kids shouting in the background as a dog was chasing a ball. The sky was getting overcast and I wondered: Why is everyone just getting on with life as if everything is normal, when it’s all changing?

  ‘Are you even coming back?’

  Tucking her hair behind her ear, she replied: ‘I don’t know.’ She paused. ‘I mean, what would I be coming back to?’

  ‘But … but, you have to pass your driving test.’

  It was the first time she laughed. It kind of made me laugh as well.

  ‘I’ve waited this long.’

  I went to sit down, leaning against the bark of the tree. She came and sat next to me as I picked up a twig.

  ‘Don’t be angry,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t act like a brat, you mean.’

  I felt her arm around me. ‘You were never a brat.’

  She was the one who was meant to cry, but tears came to my eyes. I should’ve been the one comforting her. I was a brat. Bubblee was right. But with Fatti gone, who’d be left to tell me otherwise? How was I meant to tell Fatti that I needed her more than she realised? More than I realised.

  ‘I’m not angry, Fats.’

  We both sat in silence for a while before she asked how my assignment was going. I just shrugged, said it was fine. I couldn’t explain to her what it felt like when I watched back all those clips – you had to see it to feel it. And I wasn’t about to tell her what was going on at school. She’d end up worrying about me, and actually, sometimes it’s best to save the people you care about from getting upset.

  ‘Aren’t you worried about what’s going to happen to Mustafa?’ I said. ‘Your brother?’

  The words didn’t come out very easily.

  ‘Of course, but me being here or in Bangladesh won’t make a difference.’

  ‘And what about Malik?’

  She picked at her fingernails, and I had to smack her hands.

  ‘Gross,’ I said.

  Fatti sat on them instead, but she didn’t look at me.

  ‘He’s not staying with us any more, you know. He’s at some friend’s house,’ I said.

  When she didn’t answer, I added: ‘Listen, I know it’s gross because you fancied your brother. I mean, seriously vom.’

  ‘Oh, Mae, don’t,’ she said, screwing her face as if she’d throw up.

  ‘But it’s not like you knew.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she replied.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Mum and Dad will be upset, you know.’

  She nodded. ‘I know. But I need to do this.’

  You can’t argue with needs, can you?

  ‘Oh, here,’ I said, reaching into my bag.

  I handed her the tube of cheese. She laughed and finally those tears made an appearance – she was still the same Fatti.

  ‘See?’ she said. ‘If you really were a brat then you’d have got me celery sticks.’

  She looked at me and pulled me into a hug. That’s where we sat for the next half an hour, in silence, watching the clouds pass over us.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Fatima

  You know that moment, the one you’ve waited for forever? The one you’ve seen in films and witnessed in other people’s lives – while you’re eating cheese or failing another driving test – where people realise: This is it. This is where my life begins. Sitting on the aeroplane, looking out of the small window as we travelled down the runway, ready to leave England behind, was that moment for me. It was the first time in weeks I didn’t feel sad. Maybe it was the first time in thirty years. My life was finally going to begin. I wasn’t just watching things change for other people while I looked through some kind of glass window.

  Mae kept calling me to try and change my mind. She told me that she’d spoken to Malik and he said I should wait. That he’d come with me to Bangladesh because I should have some kind of support, and we just needed to see first how much longer it might be until Mustafa came out of his coma. What if he never came out of it, though? Plus, the idea of spending a whole plane journey with Malik made me feel sick. All those feelings I had when I first met him came back with each memory, except in reverse form. It’d take me a while to get over that. Anyway, hadn’t I waited enough already? I had to explain to Mae: when you’re born it’s just you and your mum and that’s how I wanted it to be. I was going to be born again.

  She told me to come to the house to speak to Mum and Dad about what I was about to do. Dad was pacing the garden alone when they weren’t all at the hospital. Mum did nothing but pray. Even when they weren’t saying anything, Mae said you could tell they were thinking about me. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at them. If I looked at them I knew I’d feel guilty – as if I was betraying them, even though, really, they’d betrayed me. I’m not pitying myself, I’m just stating the fact. If I looked into Dad’s eyes, or Mum’s concerned face, my resolve would’ve wobbled. I didn’t want to be the Fatti that wobbled. I wanted to be like Bubblee – unapologetic. And I could see myself apologising to them the minute I told them I was leaving to go to Kadi Pur, Sylhet, Bangladesh. So, I called them instead.

  ‘Fatti, my daughter,’ said Mum with a tremble in her voice, so I knew she was about to cry. ‘Where are you, Fatti? Come home. I have cooked so many nice things for you. I’m buying your prawns every day in case you come home.’

  It should’ve been nice to hear, but it just annoyed me. I don’t want to be the Fatti who eats prawns and cheese from a tube any more.

  ‘How’s Mustafa?’ I asked. ‘Is there any progress?’

  ‘He is the same. Everything has changed but he is the same,’ said Mum.

  Dad’s voice then came on the phone.

  ‘Babba, how are you? Are you okay? Where are you? Tell me and I will come pick you up. Your amma and I have been so worried for you. You should come and see your brother-in-law. He might be sleeping but he will know who is and isn’t there.’

  ‘Please, don’t, Ab—’ I stopped myself because he wasn’t really my dad, was he? Even though the sound of his voice made me want to snuggle into his arms like I did when I was a child. ‘I mean, I’m okay. I’m safe. I promise. As for Mustafa, tell Mum I’m praying for him.’

  This time I wasn’t lying – I was actually praying for him. What else could I do from a distance?

  ‘When are you coming home?’ he said. ‘Your sisters, your amma, they all miss you. I miss you.’

  Imagine if I heard that in person? I’d never have left. I could hear Mum in the background, who kept on asking questions. So I told him where I was going. He passed the message on to Mum.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re going to Bangladesh?’ said Mum, taking over the phone.

  ‘I need to meet them. The woman who gave birth to me. She’s your sister,’ I added.

  ‘My sister,’ replied Mum. ‘Who is she now? I don’t know. It’s been so many years since I’ve seen her.’

  I suppose now I understood a little better why. Perhaps it was too hard for my biological mum to keep in communication with the woman she’d given her child to. Maybe regret led to distance.

  ‘Think about this,’ said Mum. ‘We are your family, Fatti. And how are you going to go, all alone?’

  ‘Malik’s told his parents and someone will pick me up from the airport – and anyway, I’m an adult,’ I added. ‘I’m able to travel alone.’

  There was some muffling as I heard Dad’s voice again. ‘At least come and see us
once before you leave.’

  I paused. ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  ‘When will you come back from Bangladesh?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I heard him sigh. ‘Fatti, when did your heart become so hard?’

  It was too much. My heart was hard? What did they expect? For me to be angry for a little while and then just forget they’d lied to me? Did they think I wouldn’t want to know who I really was? Who my parents really were? Did they think I wouldn’t want to speak to my biological mum and see how much of her was in me? Or that I’d not want to sit and listen to my biological dad and figure out how many characteristics we shared? Whether we liked the same food or music or whatever.

  ‘When I found out the people I thought were my parents lied to me,’ I said, and without waiting to hear another word, I gently put the phone down.

  When I turned around, there was Ash. I hadn’t heard him come into the house and wasn’t sure how much of my conversation he’d heard.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I should’ve knocked.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I replied. ‘It’s your house. You shouldn’t have to knock. My parents,’ I said, holding my phone up.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Told them I was going to Bangladesh.’

  ‘How’d they take it?’

  I put my phone down and sat on the sofa.

  ‘That well?’ he asked.

  ‘Why are they so shocked that I want to do this? All this time you think you know your parents and actually, you realise, you might not have been living in the same world.’

  ‘I think that can be true of a lot of relationships, to be honest,’ he replied, taking the seat next to me.

  I know it’s his home, but being so close to him felt weird – I wished he’d sat on the sofa opposite.

  ‘You talk as if I’m the one in the wrong,’ I said, lowering my voice and gaze.

  Sometimes it just feels as if no-one’s really on your side. And the ones that are, like Mae, aren’t there to offer the comfort you need.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, putting his hand on mine. ‘You have to remember I’m a parent, not a person who’s discovered they were adopted.’ He sighed, holding on to my hand that I involuntarily pressed into his. ‘I’m not saying you’re in the wrong. I’m just saying that right now they’re scared they’re going to lose you.’

  ‘I can’t not meet my real parents just to make my adoptive parents feel safe. They’re the adults. They’re the ones who should’ve seen this coming. They shouldn’t have lied to me all this time.’

  ‘Would your decision have been different?’

  He rubbed my hand with his thumb and I wanted to lean into him; just to rest my head against his shoulders.

  ‘Maybe not, but at least they’d have been honest.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, nodding. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something, being a parent hurts. Even when your children are happy and things are going well there’s always this fear of what might go wrong and how you’re going to protect them from it if it does. And then there’s the disappointment in yourself when you know you can’t. The pain of having to see these little humans you brought up with so much love and care go through something you can do nothing about. Even if you didn’t believe in God, you might turn to him out of desperation.’ He looked at me. ‘You’re not their only child, but it seems to me they’ve loved you just as much as the rest. No?’

  It wasn’t something I could disagree with. I looked at him and shrugged. ‘Maybe love isn’t enough.’

  He looked at me, confused. ‘That doesn’t sound like the Fatima I know.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to be that Fatima.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Well,’ he said, pursing his lips as if in sympathy, ‘that would be the most tragic thing out of this whole situation.’

  What did that mean? I closed my eyes, as the plane took flight, trying to forget about what was past so I could focus on the future. I just knew it was going to be different. I could feel it in my very bones.

  *

  As I stepped out of the plane I hadn’t realised how the heat would sweep the air from my lungs. But there was no time to catch my breath, as a woman with her family behind me told me to move faster.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I said, desperately trying to walk down the stairs of the plane with my hand luggage while making sure I didn’t trip on my long kaftan. My parents would see: I was Western, but I’d retained parts of my culture – parts of them.

  I’d wanted my arrival to be a surprise, just to see the look on their faces: that surprise, mixed with disbelief, followed by relief that their daughter had finally come home. Mae had called me from a number I didn’t recognise and before I knew it, she’d handed the phone over to Malik.

  ‘Fatima. How are you?

  ‘Oh. Fine. Thanks,’ I said, wanting to hang up immediately.

  ‘Good. That is very good. Now listen, I’ve already told my parents you’ll be coming to Bangladesh.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s better this way. Families don’t like surprises,’ he said. ‘Now, are you sure you want to go alone?’

  ‘Yes. Definitely,’ I replied. ‘What did they say when you told them? How did they sound?’

  Because no-one gives away a baby just like that. I thought of Farah and whether I would do the same for her: if I had children and could make her happy by giving her one of them, would I?

  ‘You will see when you meet them,’ he replied. ‘And you are comfortable, where you are staying?’

  ‘Yes. Ashraf’s been a good friend,’ I said.

  ‘Hmm. Fatima, I don’t think it is proper for you to be spending so much time with a man who’s not family.’

  I looked over at Ash who was writing out a cheque and drinking his tea. He smiled at me as I smiled back. It felt ironic that Malik should be telling a girl who was given away at birth about what’s proper or not, but I suppose this is what having a brother who’s actually there, as opposed to Jay, is about.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ he added.

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied.

  I wanted to say more, but I wasn’t sure what, so I just said bye and put the phone down.

  I didn’t understand the bustle here; why people had to shove me out of the way, why no-one was queuing. I wiped my brow with the scarf I’d placed over my head as I left the plane, but I’d only walk another step and beads of sweat would be forming on my upper lip and forehead again. All the while my eyes were darting everywhere, looking for something familiar. The faces in view confused the pictures I’d seen of my biological parents – everyone seemed to potentially be my mum and dad. It didn’t help that my heart was beating so fast I thought it might burst through my chest. Settle down, settle down. But it’s hard to settle anything in clamour. I stood in the middle of the airport, turning around, waiting to be recognised.

  ‘Affa?’

  I whipped around to see who’d called me sister. It was a young boy, no more than seventeen, holding a sign in Bengali. I recognised a few of the letters – it seemed to spell Fatima.

  ‘Fatima Affa?’ he added.

  I nodded, looking over his shoulder, wondering who he might be with.

  ‘Come with me,’ he replied, taking my bags.

  He didn’t give me much of a chance to ask who he was before he led the way, the veins in his skinny arms protruding as he carried my bags and weaved effortlessly through the crowds. Even without the bags I was stumbling and breaking into a semi-jog just to keep up. We came into the open where people seemed to scatter but the sun’s bright light was the next thing to accost me. My footsteps stopped at the sight I saw: skeletal, elderly men and women, begging for money; malnourished children, holding out their hands for coins. For a minute I thought I’d entered into a film set – it was so different to where I’d been just under ten hours ago. It took a few moments before my brain managed to tell my feet to begin walking again. I passed each person as they held out their hands to me. Was I meant
to give them money? It seemed rude to walk by and just ignore them. The more I looked at each person the more they pleaded. I got my purse out and began to hand over notes to whoever I passed until I realised if I kept doing this I’d have nothing left in my wallet. When I looked around I’d also lost sight of the boy. I had a flash of panic, thinking that he’d taken my bags and that coming out here alone was the stupidest thing to have done. Then I saw him, metres ahead of me. I clutched my chest with my hand. Thank God. I breathed a sigh of relief. Mae’s right. I do worry too much. He’d stopped by a small, battered-looking beige car and opened the boot. When I walked up to it I looked at its scratched surface and the dented door on the passenger’s side. To be honest, it didn’t look very safe and this boy barely looked old enough to drive. He threw my bags in the boot and slammed it shut. There was the tiny possibility that I was the wrong Fatima Affa, wasn’t there? I cleared my throat.

  ‘Excuse me …’

  He’d already walked over to the driver’s side and was getting into the car, so I had to get in too.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked, keeping the car door open because I wasn’t ready to leave a crowded space with a man I didn’t know. Plus, the heat in the car was so intense I wondered how we’d manage to breathe in it.

  ‘Raja,’ he replied, putting on a little cap before he leaned over me, grabbed the door handle on my side and slammed the door shut.

  I barely had a chance to register before he was already honking at the mini van, crammed with people, in front of him.

  I went to put on my seatbelt before realising that there wasn’t one. It had been cut out of the car.

  ‘What happened to the seatbelts?’ I said.

  This was apparently funny because he laughed out loud and adjusted his cap, beeping at the rickshaw that was now in his way.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked, watching the streets that were lined with all kinds of stalls: fruit, vegetables, fresh juices.

  Raja pushed his hand on the car horn again and this time kept it there as he replied, ‘To your home, Affa.’

  The nerves I had were untangling themselves. Someone must have told him who I really was – maybe even what happened. Perhaps there was going to be a gathering of people to welcome me back to the place where I was born.